Wolf in Tiger's Stripes

by Victoria Gordon

  “Fred,” he replied enigmatically. “But Fred is something you really will have to take on trust. Even Roberta and Ted don’t know about Fred – yet.”

  “Which means, I presume, that they both knew about this ... this deliberate deception?”

  Bevan’s grin gleamed sharklike in the starlight. “I expect Ted might have twigged to it about halfway here. Maybe sooner. Roberta mightn’t have been as certain until we actually got here. She’s never been on the route we took, but she knew where she was when she arrived.”

  “So it’s all been just one gigantic charade?” Judith found herself even more appreciative of the cunning involved, especially in light of Ted Norton’s discourse during the day’s long journey about tiger sightings and his early bush experiences.

  “Ted even showed us a place where he said he’d actually seen a tiger trapped,” she added with a chuckle.

  “Don’t make more of a meal of it than it deserves.” Bevan’s voice now serious. “Ted did see a tiger trapped there. He showed me that very place when I was just a little tacker. And tomorrow maybe I’ll show you a place where I saw a tiger myself, or what I thought was a tiger, anyhow. I still think it was, or maybe I just fancy the delusion.”

  And he smiled gently down at her, reaching out to take her fingers in his large, strong hands.

  “Make no mistake, Judith Theresa, this is Tasmanian tiger country. If such a thing still exists, we’ve as good a chance of seeing one here as anywhere in the state. Probably better, really, than where your little mate’s planning for his ‘proper’ search. Nobody’s being cheated by us coming here.”

  They made the return journey without talking, although Bevan held her hand the entire way and Judith made no attempt to forestall him. But her mind was no longer in tune with the situation. She found her thoughts awhirl at how strangely complicated everything was becoming.

  It wasn’t until they were in sight of the fire that the obvious question flashed into her mind, and by then it was too late to ask it. But even as she snuggled into her sleeping bag, already halfway to slumber, she found herself thinking it.

  Fred?

  21

  Breakfast the next day was a slightly uncomfortable affair for Judith. She kept feeling that everybody was watching her, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of her nocturnal stroll with Bevan, her inner guilt at the illicit pleasures now imprinted on her entire sensory system, or that other guilt – risen sure as the sun – at knowing something the rest didn’t.

  The crew spent the day following where Bevan, Roberta, and Derek had traveled the day before, locating cameras, sensors, and batteries, discussing the future plans for the expedition and toying with the myriad interrelationships that would be involved in turning such a disparate group into something approaching a real, proper team.

  Which, Judith thought, was all laid on the shakiest of possible foundations. Bevan’s game playing was hardly conducive to any sort of team spirit. Once his deception about their location was known, he’d be more likely to be strung up by the ears than accepted as any sort of team leader.

  And for herself? She was beginning to wish she’d never come to Tasmania, had never – ever – encountered Bevan Keene, and especially never gotten herself involved in this ridiculous, ill-fated expedition to search for an extinct animal species that was more myth than anything else.

  Her own role in the affair was becoming increasingly complicated. She felt compromised now by Bevan’s disclosure, felt it had somehow forced her totally onto his side in the confrontation she knew must eventually happen.

  When everybody made much of getting a photographic record of where Bevan had “maybe” seen a tiger when he was a boy, Judith was positive he was laughing at the lot of them, certain he was laughing especially at her, enjoying the way he’d involved her in his devious schemes.

  I’m going to end up in the soup no matter how this all turns out. It’s as if everything that happens is part of some grand design just to get me. And it’s your damned fault, Bevan Keene, and don’t think I don’t know it, too!

  Throughout the day, her mind kept returning to Bevan’s deceptiveness and the elusive, mysterious “Fred.” She was certain her gaze strayed to that taboo west gully so often when they returned to camp for lunch that everyone simply couldn’t help noticing. Bevan noticed – that much she was sure of.

  As well he should! Judith had no doubt his memories of their nocturnal ramble were as vivid as her own and was almost brought undone when she discovered that she could rekindle those memories in Bevan merely by pointedly staring at his crotch and letting him catch her at it.

  The first time was by accident. She was lost in her own pleasant thoughts of the night before and scarcely realized her gaze was focused there until she saw the movement, could almost feel the growth of his sex beneath the moleskin slacks. Then she’d looked up to see his eyes fairly glowing with an unholy light of anticipation that matched her own.

  By noon, she was reveling in this newfound power to excite Bevan Keene, this blatant control she had discovered. By midafternoon, the whole thing was starting to backfire. She began to feel the moistness between her thighs, could feel her tummy going all fluttery, was having too many daydreams about being alone with Bevan, of what they might and could and should and almost certainly would do, if only they could find the privacy.

  The entire group walked the original line of cameras and sensors that afternoon, collecting and replacing film but making short work of the journey without having to carry all the equipment. It would be different on Monday, when it all had to be gathered up again.

  The fact that each and every camera had been triggered brought an air of anticipation to the evening ahead. Everyone rushed through dinner and the requisite chores while waiting for Jan Smythe to disclose what was on the various videotapes. The cameras with digital film, for this test expedition, at any rate, would await downloading later. Full computer facilities would accompany them on their main search expedition once a location had been decided upon.

  Judith personally thought the still-unresolved disputes about where to concentrate the main search were typical of the way the entire project was shaping up. The greens wanted to dedicate their energies to the so-called Tarkine Wilderness, a vast area of Tasmania’s far northwest proposed for World Heritage status by the Wilderness Society. The historical aboriginal name for the area had only come into usage in late 1992 – some said solely as an invention of the conservation movement – and the entire region was the subject of highly controversial disputes between the various conservation, forestry, and mining interest groups and lobbyists.

  It was also, according to her own research, far from the most likely region to center a search for tigers, being mostly dense, wet sclerophyll forest or even more dense proper rainforest. Only in the buttongrass plains of the coastal region and a few fringe areas bordering on agricultural areas was there even possible Tasmanian tiger country. That was her view, and it was one shared by Ted Norton and Bevan himself.

  “We’re sitting right on the edge of the finest tiger country in the state right now,” Ted remarked as they sat over a final coffee while awaiting Jan’s readiness to begin the video show. “You’ve only to talk to those in the parks service who really know, and they’ll tell you the most likely areas are between Goulds Country and Fingal, which is closer to here than you’d think, along with one area east of Cradle Mountain and another a bit inland from Burnie.”

  Judith looked around to be sure nobody was in close earshot, then leaned close to hiss her question at Bevan.

  “Then why are we here? I thought you swore black and blue that no sane grazier would ever admit to seeing a tiger on his own property, much less take a search expedition out to look for one right in his own back yard. Aren’t you taking a huge risk? I mean, what if we find one?”

  “Life is full of risks,” he replied with a cocky, disarming grin. But the look he gave her held messages that spoke of far different risks than elusiv
e, extinct animals. His gaze was a bold, sensuous caress that touched like fire on her lips, her cheeks, her throat, then moved lower to pluck at her nipples, which thrust themselves hard against the material of her bra in an involuntary response she couldn’t halt, couldn’t even begin to control.

  “But both you and Ted have said you’d seen tigers here, right here, right where you’ve got these people looking for them. You said yourself that if a tiger was found, unarguably, provably found, anywhere in Tasmania, they’d lock up the area and throw away the key.”

  “Which they would, or at least I’d hope they would,” he replied calmly. “If they didn’t, we’d have every ratbag poacher in the entire country down here trying to find and shoot the damned thing.”

  “And you out trying to shoot them,” Judith retorted, shivering inwardly at the memory of how she’d worried so much about him that night. Was it only weeks ago, when it felt like forever?

  “Not the point,” he said. “Okay, there’s a margin of risk. I’ll grant you that. But think about it, Judith Teresa. I’ve been wandering round this country for most of my life, and Ted’s been doing it practically forever. Judging from our collective experience, the odds aren’t much of this mob sighting a tiger in mere days. They’re lucky to be able to find each other, by my reckoning.”

  “You make no sense,” she insisted. “You should, by that logic, be arguing against us moving to the Tarkine Wilderness, but you’re not. And you know as well as I do that on existing information we could be wasting our time if we continue the search there. Surely you can’t expect me to believe you really want this expedition to succeed?”

  “Well, of course I do.” The vehemence of his reply smashed at her like a physical blow. “Bloody oath, woman, don’t you think I’ve got better things to do than bugger about in the scrub with a bunch of conservationist wankers like this mob? You think I’m doing this just for my health? Of course I want us to find real, living proof that tigers have miraculously escaped extinction. It could be the saving of Tasmania, an end to the wanton resource mismanagement, maybe the one big chance that’s left to return to sane land management policies in this state.”

  Bevan was breathing heavily, almost snorting through his mustache, and Judith had an irreverent vision of him head down, charging at a gate like some modern Minotaur. She had to stifle the giggle it threatened to provoke, then fought for something – anything – to say before she actually did laugh.

  “What’s a wanker?” she asked, keeping as straight a face as she could manage, averting her eyes so he wouldn’t see the laughter in them. It was a fair enough question, although she’d heard the expression often enough that she knew very well it could mean anything from masturbator to lazy layabout.

  “Not a word to be used in your dispatches from the front,” Bevan replied. “Or even in polite company, truth be told. It means ... well, let’s just say ‘idle time-waster,’ shall we? That’s close enough.”

  But his eyes said he lied, or at least was stretching the truth a great deal. Judith made a mental note to try the question on him again, sometime when he’d least expect it.

  “Or better yet, some day when the time is right, I’ll show you,” he said, and the devils pranced in his eyes. “But this is definitely not the time,” he added, with a sidelong glance to where Ted Norton was studiously ignoring them.

  “Tell me again why you aren’t arguing against us going to the Tarkine Wilderness,” she said in a skilful change of subject that Bevan, cunning devil that he was, fielded with equal skill.

  “The quickest way to force that issue to the wrong conclusion is to start arguing against it,” he said, one dark eyebrow raised in a sardonic expression that could have implied almost anything. “In fact, I’m seriously debating whether or not to start insisting we do go there, just because it would be the quickest way I can imagine to make our happy little band of greenies change their collective mind. They’re so damned convinced that we’re the enemy – your good self excluded, I hope – that they’re bound and bloody determined to do exactly the opposite of whatever they think I want, on the assumption I’m trying to steer them away from any real chance of success.”

  “And your little mate Innes has big plans to link his name with the Tarkine if he can find a way to make it a national issue like the Franklin,” interjected Ted Norton, shooting a particularly venomous glance toward where Derek was holding court.

  Judith bit like a ravenous trout. “He is not my little mate,” she snapped before she had the chance and good sense to think better of such a response.

  The retort brought a bark of laughter from Bevan.

  “Careful, Judith Theresa, your journalistic integrity is playing up again,” he warned. “And I’m not sure we’ve got enough antacid tablets in the camp to keep it under control.”

  “Journalistic integrity? I saw one of those in a zoo once,” Ted Norton said, his eyes twinkling. “But I think it died without breeding. Just like the last tiger.”

  “The journalistic integrity I heard about got all emotionally involved with a journalistic neutrality and ended up with a bad case of fence sitter’s disease,” Bevan added somberly.

  Judith fought for control and against the urge to stand up and run away, not to hide her anger, but to ensure that if she fell about laughing, it wouldn’t be where either of these two potstirrers could get the satisfaction of seeing her do it! She was saved by the throaty roar of the portable generator. Jan Smythe was ready for action.

  22

  An hour later, Judith was half inclined to think she’d have done better to run away – it might have been more productive than looking at fuzzy images of what almost everyone agreed was the same Tasmanian devil caught by each of eleven different cameras! She knew for a fact that every individual Tassie devil had unique patterning within the mostly black-and-white fur, and this was clearly the same one.

  “He’s proper curious, that one.” Old Ted laughed when the stocky little black-and-white animal peered nearsightedly into the lens of the last camera, then scuttled away into the shadows.

  “It proves the cameras work,” said Derek. A trifle too defensively, Judith thought. “And there’s some quite good footage of native cats and wallabies, too.”

  “And that feral cat was a prize,” Jan said, bubbling with delight at how well the equipment had worked, the failure to capture a tiger seemingly irrelevant to her.

  “I reckon we ought to knock off a couple of wallabies in the morning and bait one or two of the camera areas.” Ted directed his remark to Bevan, as if the rest of the crew would automatically accept the suggestion.

  Bevan didn’t even bother to look around. He didn’t have to – the first squeak of outrage shot from Ron’s lips with predictable venom.

  “I protest!” he cried. “We’re here on a scientific expedition, not a hunting trip. We just can’t go around slaughtering native wildlife. It’s ... it’s ... it’s absolutely disgraceful!”

  Peters looked to Derek and Jan and the ever-quiet Reg Hudson for support. And got it, which didn’t surprise Judith in the slightest. Nor did it seem to surprise Bevan and Ted, logically enough.

  “Ron is right, of course,” said Derek. “How would it look in the reports if we had to admit to slaughtering one sort of wildlife just to lure another?”

  “Unthinkable!” Jan said it with an emphasis apparently shared by Reg, who’d been nodding vigorously if silently throughout the tirade.

  Judith, positive now that Bevan had put Ted up to asking the question as much for the stir it would cause as for any real purpose, didn’t bother to join the row. Anything she said would be misconstrued by one side or the other – then she wondered if that, too, wasn’t part of Bevan’s purpose.

  Ted acquiesced – too easily. “You’re probably right,” he said. “Although my reasoning was that by baiting, we could keep that cheeky little devil and his mates in one place for a bit, if nothing else. And maybe keep him from following Jan around like a lost puppy dog.
Let’s have another think about it when we collect the videos tomorrow if all we get is repeat performances from our curious little mate.”

  “I am against the needless slaughter of native wildlife for any excuse,” Derek insisted, totally ignoring Ted’s comment now that he was on one of his hobbyhorses and about to set the spurs. “It simply cannot be justified!”

  “Not even, I suppose, when the wallabies are eating you out of house and home?” Roberta had been silent, but now she spoke through clenched teeth, clearly struggling to keep her temper.

  Remembering Roberta’s comments about having so many acres, so many sheep, and so many more kangaroos and wallabies, Judith glanced around apprehensively, suddenly concerned this would develop into a full-scale shouting match. Or, as Ted would call it, a raging blue.

  In her research and from discussions with various authorities, she knew there were numerous times and circumstances throughout Australia when kangaroo numbers reached plague proportions that caused immense damage to crops and grazing potential. Indeed, it was said the country had far more kangaroos now than had ever existed before white settlement had provided better grazing and improved water sources for the native animals.

  In Tasmania, where the “Forester,” a local subspecies of the Eastern Grey Kangaroo, were totally protected except under special permit, such damage was common, and the wallabies were so common throughout the island state as to be considered almost vermin by most graziers. There was a regular season during which wallabies were shot for pet meat, and many Tasmanians considered them equally good “people tucker.”

  “Don’t you realize this is the only country in the entire world where people actually eat their national wildlife symbol? It’s disgusting, absolutely disgusting!” Derek scowled.

  He was getting into high gear now, and Judith braced herself for a proper slanging match. It was this sort of fanatical cant, she knew, which often brought conservationists and graziers to physical confrontation.